


The White Whale

by lonelywalker



Series: Standing in Our Own Sunshine [2]
Category: The Art of Fielding - Chad Harbach
Genre: AU, Canon Gay Relationship, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-09 13:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pella checks out the Bremens' house with Owen and her dad, trying to come to terms with what the future may hold for all three of them.</p><p>Spoilers for the entire novel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The White Whale

Pella found the house easily enough. Main Street was a few blocks away from her shared apartment, and a world away in terms of property values. She was trying to decide whether the remoteness of Westish made prices higher or lower than something more urban when she glanced across several immaculate green lawns and saw Owen Dunne sitting on the edge of a porch. 

Her opinion of Owen had fluctuated drastically over the past few weeks. Before she’d even met him, Mike had explained that he was on the baseball team and had taken a ball to the face. Her dad, when he filled her in on the dinner he’d somehow had them invited to with Owen and his mother, had added that Owen was a very bright scholarship student and enthusiastic environmentalist. In person, Owen had seemed nice, if remarkably slender for an athlete, and surprisingly articulate for someone with a massive head injury. After that first evening in her dad’s quarters, she hadn’t really thought about him at all. But now she was likely to be thinking about him for the rest of her life.

His face had healed. There wasn’t a mark on it now, his cheeks smooth, hairless, and unbruised. She paused at the gate, sizing him up before he noticed she was there and raised his eyes from his book. What, precisely, was it about Owen Dunne that had made her dad fall so hard for him that he’d not only lost the job he loved, but apparently changed sexuality somewhere in the last four years? Pella had always been a firm, if casual, believer that sexuality was a result of genetics, determined before birth. But that would suggest her dad had always been gay or bisexual, and had either been hiding it from her or repressing it completely. A couple of hours ago, at their exceedingly awkward lunch in Carapelli’s, her dad had just given her a pained look of mystification. 

“I don’t know,” he’d said. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

That hadn’t stopped her trawling through her memories of his many girlfriends and whatever he’d said about her mom over the years. None of them had been a serious relationship, she knew that much. If any lasted a year it was a sign of impressive commitment on his part. But if he was actually gay, it was a pretty elaborate deception for the sake of a three-year-old who wouldn’t really have cared either way if it was boyfriends he was bringing home. And if he was bi? Well, same difference. 

Sure some people repressed that kind of thing all their lives, but her dad, who had written a book that had been among the seminal (ha!) texts of the nascent field of queer theory, who had spent years onboard a ship, who was a faultlessly snappy dresser, had never been that subtle if it were true. He’d never joined the priesthood or got married and retreated to the suburbs to have four kids. He’d been an opera-obsessed English professor in Massachusetts, for God’s sake. 

Owen wasn’t bad looking, but he wasn’t the kind of guy men even jokingly said they’d go gay for. Slim, with soft features, you could imagine someone seeing him as feminine, or at least more feminine than Mike. But he was also tall, almost as tall as her dad, and no more effeminate really than Henry or any of the many hipsterish students she saw wandering around campus in their tight jeans and glasses. And, despite the relative lack of interesting women in Westish, her dad probably wasn’t desperate enough to fixate on a man instead. 

“Do you actually have _sex_?” she’d asked, a question forgivable only by just how baffled she was.

She had been relieved – and maybe even more baffled – by her dad laughing into his espresso in response. “Yes, Pella,” he’d said. “We actually have sex.”

So here was Owen Dunne, who sucked her dad off or fucked him in the ass or whatever the hell they did (she’d now thought all she wanted to about her dad’s sex life), raising a friendly palm in greeting. She pushed open the gate. “Hi,” she said, as non-confrontational as possible. Her dad had avoided punching David, after all. “House looks nice.”

Owen glanced upward. “It really does. Better with some solar panels on the roof, but Guert made me promise to assess it from a slightly less ecological perspective.”

He looked nice too, turned out in ironed tan slacks, a dress shirt under a maroon sweater. Even with the May sunshine, Wisconsin wasn’t warm enough for t-shirts. Presumably the first time they’d met, when he’d been in an undershirt and pajamas, wasn’t representative of Owen’s usual style. Or maybe he really was trying to impress her today. 

“Congratulations on the championship.”

“Thank you.”

“How’s Henry doing?” She’d seen the highlights on YouTube last night, which mainly meant the runs and Henry’s collapse.

Owen tucked his book into the messenger bag by his side. “Mike talked to him this morning. He seems to be doing much better.”

“Good.” She stared at the slab of pathway between them. “You’re the only person I’ve seen today who doesn’t seem about to keel over. Henry’s in the hospital, Mike showed up at my door and he can barely walk. My dad looks like he hasn’t slept in days…”

“He didn’t sleep much last night. We went to bed quite late and he was already in the shower by the time I woke up.”

If she’d thought, that first evening, that these sorts of statements would ever come out of Owen’s mouth… His mother’s, maybe. If Genevieve were saying it, she wouldn’t even blink, but Owen… It wasn’t that he was a man. She was adamant with herself about that. Even the fact he was a student didn’t matter anymore. It was that, for all his serene manner and no-doubt brilliant mind, he was a kid, younger than her. 

“I’m not sure he sleeps at all,” she said. “He gets up at four. I don’t know when he even goes to bed… Although I guess maybe some of those nights he was really with you.”

“Not that many.” Owen was rubbing his eyes under his glasses. They’d all flown back early this morning from South Carolina. “I thought I’d calmed him down last night, but he’s-”

“Heartbroken.”

He nodded. “I had no idea it would be this bad. A rap on the knuckles, maybe. I thought Guert knew what he was doing.”

“My dad never has any idea what he’s doing. With you, with me.” She sat down beside him on the porch, feet on the top step. The pinewood was warm under her palms. “Great at teaching and speeches, and an utter failure at any kind of long-term relationship. So I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Owen smiled. “I believe I’m already in it.”

“He says you want him to go to Tokyo with you. You want my opinion? Leave him _now_ while you’ve got a good excuse. Maybe he won’t feel so bad and he can start figuring out what to do with his life without you in it. Without this house, too. It’s weird. It’s like camping outside your ex’s apartment with a boombox. He should get _away_. Go back to Harvard. Go anywhere.”

“Why not Tokyo?” Owen turned slightly so he could face her on the step, his fingers just inches from hers. For a moment she thought he was going to take her hand. “Pella, I’ve had my heart broken. It wasn’t pleasant, and I have no intention of putting Guert through that.”

It felt wrong being mean to someone so essentially kind and diplomatic, someone her dad loved, but that inner instinct to protect her dad at all costs was driving her onward again. “Because you’re the exception, right? You’re twenty-one and you actually _do_ know what you want and you’re not going to change your mind and realize you’ve made a huge mistake in six months or a year, or four years? Bullshit. I’ve been there.”

“You haven’t held him all night,” Owen said, and there was the sound of an engine.

Her dad’s Audi pulled up on the other side of the street and Pella stood up, dusting off her jeans as her dad got out, accompanied by the sugar-white husky he’d also brought to lunch. Next to Owen’s preppy outfit and her dad’s tailored Italian suit, her hoodie didn’t stand a chance. Hadn’t she once been the most beautiful girl at the ball?

“Hello!” Owen stood up too, greeting Contango. “Shake?” he offered. Contango looked at his hand quizzically with one blue eye, then sniffed it. Owen crouched down to give him a good scratch behind the ears instead. 

“Hey,” Pella said. Her dad really did look tired. Whether that was genuinely from lack of sleep or from stress, or even from smoking too much, she had no idea. But they’d all failed Henry lately, should’ve seen the signs and strong-armed him to either the hospital or the nearest McDonald’s. She’d have to make sure her dad wasn’t wiped out in the same way.

Affenlight stood apart from them a little awkwardly. “Sorry I’m late. Bruce Gibbs was on campus, apparently just so he could corner me and apologize while still asking when he could expect my resignation letter. It seems Genevieve gave him a call.”

Owen straightened up. “She was quite upset.”

“Not upset enough to demand they officially fire me instead of accepting my resignation. Bruce was more unhappy to hear that we plan to stay together. Apparently the usual procedure involves a good deal more ignominy, shame, and self-flagellation.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” The way Owen said it, it was as if he actually believed it.

Her dad looked down at that same paving slab, then up again. “How’re you feeling?”

Owen flexed his shoulders. “Stiff. I could do with a long, hot soak.”

Affenlight smiled faintly. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Pella looked between them. “I know you’re sleeping together. Just hug or whatever.”

Hugging on cue was of course the least natural way to do it, but her dad touched a hand to Owen’s cheek and they tilted their foreheads together and kissed, which Pella thought should feel strange but didn’t, and Owen wrapped his arms around her dad and her dad rested his head on Owen’s shoulder for a moment, and that was that.

“Maybe we should go inside,” Owen suggested. 

“Mm? Of course.” Affenlight rummaged in his pocket and jangled some keys, stepping up to the door. “The Bremens are off in New Mexico for a few more days, as I said, so please don’t disturb any more of their things than you have to. They’re not packed up yet.”

Pella exchanged a look with Owen behind his back. “Dad, we’re not _actually_ eight years old.”

As they stood in the doorway, Contango impatiently pushed past them and went to root around in the kitchen for food. Compared to her dad’s quarters, the space and color were incredible. Compared to David’s sterile apartment in San Francisco, it actually felt like somewhere that might be a real home. Not necessarily their home, but _a_ home.

The three of them wandered through the first floor set of rooms – kitchen, study, living room, bedroom. Pella poked her head into the bathroom, poked it out again to find Owen enthusiastically discussing – or possibly explaining – color schemes with her dad in the bedroom. 

“I thought you might take the rooms upstairs,” Affenlight said. “There’s two bedrooms, but you can use one as a study. And there’s a bathroom of course. This would be our bedroom, and we’d probably share the study next door.”

They were holding hands, she noticed, in that sort of casual way you did when your fingers just felt better curled into someone else’s. The same casual way you just moved in together and started talking about “our bedroom”.

On the one hand, Owen and her dad had known each other longer than she’d known David before she ran off with him. On the other, she’d known David so little that this knowledge was barely reassuring at all. 

“I’ll take a look upstairs then.” 

The Bremens really did have a lovely home, but mentally she was already re-envisaging it. What would she do with these walls and rooms if they were hers to redesign? She wouldn’t necessarily have to repaint, but she’d need to buy furniture. Maybe she’d risk picking up a paintbrush again to fill at least a wall or two with art she didn’t have to purchase. It would mean using her dad’s money – her dish-washing salary would only stretch to a cushion or two. But if her dad was basically commissioning her to design and furnish a floor, she could get her head around that. It would be one way to pass the summer… 

And, from the look of his dorm room, Owen might be the ideal companion for hunting around stores and flea markets. If only her dad had decided to adopt him somehow instead of sleep with him. She could be friends with a guy like Owen: intellectual, calm, friendly, cultured, clean to a fault, and – maybe most importantly – not sexually interested in her in the least. He was Mike’s friend, Henry’s friend, everyone’s friend. No one but her and the deans cared that her dad and Owen were screwing around, which didn’t put her in very good company. Why? Because everyone knew what a good guy Owen was, what a good guy her dad was. Obviously neither of them was cruelly using the other for sex or better grades.

But she couldn’t depend on Owen just because he dusted under beds and won prestigious scholarships. She’d have looked pretty good on paper at nineteen. David would have looked pretty good on paper at any age. Her dad had always looked after her best interests, despite her diligent efforts to the contrary. He’d given her a home and finagled her into a free four-year degree course at a decent college despite her disciplinary record, expired SAT scores, and four years off the educational grid. She had to look out for him now.

One of the bedroom windows was filled with a simply glorious view of the lake. It was clear why her dad had been captivated, and not just because she’d suggested he acquire a little permanence and maturity in his life. She’d meant ditching his practically pubescent boyfriend rather than acquiring real estate, but… it really was beautiful. She rested her elbows on the windowsill. Ten to one her dad would sit staring at it all day, read books on the grass. They could even go swimming in the lake, but who knew what crap was out there once you scratched the surface. 

In fact there they were now, her dad and Owen standing on that lush green lawn, her dad doubtless telling Owen some long, involved story about the lake and its history. She’d sat through lectures like that all her life, usually only interested because of how enthusiastic they made her dad. Ten years ago she’d stopped even feigning interest, but Owen seemed genuinely enamored... maybe more with her dad than the subject, not that it really mattered. Whatever the topic, Guert Affenlight loved an audience. Which was an odd trait for a man usually most at home in a fort of books, but he’d always been an excellent teacher. It would do him good to get out of that office, out from behind his desk and into some sunshine, where he could connect with people again.

As she watched, Owen reached to unknot her dad’s immaculate Windsor and undo the top couple of buttons of his equally immaculate shirt. “It’s okay,” Owen seemed to be saying, his fingertips stroking the hair at the nape of her dad’s neck.

They kissed sweetly and her dad pulled off his jacket, laying it down neatly on the grass so they could sit, Owen’s arm resting on his broad shoulders. This was probably where she was supposed to see something, in them or between them, to reassure her that they were somehow meant to be together, that this love would last. But she and David could have done the same thing four years ago. She and Mike could do the same thing now. Then again, she couldn’t quite imagine her dad ever sitting like this with her mom, or with any of his fiercely professional girlfriends. Which was, she supposed, the very heart of the problem. Her dad was vulnerable, lonely, and barely thinking at all, let alone thinking straight.

Did Owen love him back? Probably. Why else would he want to take her dad with him to Tokyo? Pity, maybe. Now that her dad had lost his job because of their relationship, Owen felt obliged to stick with him, at least in the short term. 

Or maybe Owen really was a twenty-one-year-old saint who was not only deeply, genuinely in love with her dad, but committed to be with him for the foreseeable future. In which case scaring him off would be the worst thing she could ever do. What would her dad be without Westish, without Owen? He’d be her dad, and not much more.

Casting a last look around the room, she headed downstairs to pet Contango in the kitchen and open the patio door to join them on the grass.

“Isn’t this glorious?” her dad called over his shoulder.

She came to stand next to them. “It’s something all right.”

“Just look at that water…”

Pella couldn’t see anything much different about the lake here compared to the lake as seen from the college a few hundred meters away, but she’d never seen the same things as her dad. She appreciated the natural beauty, the cool breeze, that marine scent on the air. But her dad could sit riveted, captivated by something she’d never managed to define. She wondered if Owen was captivated too.

“So you’re buying it?” she crossed her arms.

Her dad looked up at her. “I think so. Do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.”

“But?”

She didn’t want to have this argument again. “I meant what I said about needing some space.”

He nodded. “I know. But if everything goes to plan, O and I will be in Tokyo from September. You’ll have the place to yourself till next summer. And then we can work something out. You can stay in a dorm, or an apartment. But it’s important to me that you have a home with me too. Even if you’re not actually here much.”

“When can we move in?” Owen asked. She had to wonder if he was doing this “we” business mainly to buck her dad up, telling him, “I’m here, I love you” in much the same way as her dad was so anxiously trying to convey that same message to her.

“The college wants me gone in two weeks. I’ll have to speak to the Bremens, but I hope we can speed up the process. At worst I’ll put my things in storage and get a hotel room for a while.”

Owen smiled. “You can always sleep in Henry’s bed.”

“I think the deans might complain.”

“And we get the dog too?” Pella cast a look back at Contango, drowsily sunning himself on the stone patio.

“We do indeed.”

“One big happy family.” She still wasn’t sure if she meant it sarcastically.

“Look at that water,” Owen said, getting to his feet. “If no one minds, I think I’ll try it out. They’d never let me do it on campus.”

Pella looked at him blankly. “Try what out?” 

“Skinny dipping.” He was already handing his sweater to her dad, who folded it neatly over his knee. “Guert says you’re an impressive swimmer yourself.”

“Not usually in lakes.”

Her dad took his shirt too. “I’m assuming you can actually swim.”

Owen raised his eyebrows, toeing off his shoes. “Is this a comment on the stereotypical abilities of urban black youth, or rather the lack thereof?”

“It’s a comment on how much we don’t want to jump in to save you. These are expensive pants.”

“Never fear.” Owen bent down to kiss him and slide his glasses into Affenlight’s shirt pocket. “My mother’s house has a pool. And I won’t go very far.”

He really did mean skinny dipping, which Pella guessed was better than heading home in soaking wet underwear. She took Owen’s place on the jacket next to her dad. “Okay,” she said as Owen ventured into the somewhat muddy shore of the lake. “He’s kind of cute, I’ll give you that.” Not the best body, unless you were looking for a somewhat androgynous, mixed-race, waiflike jeans model, but she could imagine other people, if not her dad, finding him attractive.

“He’s beautiful,” he said. “And brilliant. You should read his papers. Even at seventeen he was brilliant.”

They sat and watched Owen duck down under the still surface of the lake with barely a splash. 

“Do you like him?” Her dad’s voice was earnest, as if he’d brought his boyfriend home to meet the parents.

Pella patted his arm below his shirt sleeve. “Does anyone _not_ like Owen Dunne?”

He laughed. “True, but I think you might have different criteria.”

“He’s nice. I think he really cares about you, and I know he makes you happy. But he’s just a kid. I’m two years older and I know how childish _I_ feel. Can you imagine spending your life with someone you met at twenty-one?”

It occurred to her that they’d barely ever spoken to each other as adults before, or had a genuine conversation not marred by arguments since she was twelve. The more boyish and naive her dad seemed, the more confident and mature she felt. 

“I know why you’re saying that,” he said. “And perhaps in time you’ll be right. But he says he wants to be with me, and I have to believe it. In any case, Pella, there’s no one else for me.”

She bumped her knuckles playfully against his forearm. “There are plenty of people for you.”

He was already shaking his head. “You don’t know how I feel about him. I’ve had fun with women before. A good time. But whenever I even look at him, my heart feels like it’s about to burst.”

“Yeah? Welcome to puberty finally.”

In the lake, Owen had resurfaced further out and was now swimming back with long, lazy strokes. 

“How’s Mike?”

She shrugged. “Asleep probably.”

A pause. “I heard that you…”

“Fought, screwed Henry, and fought some more? Pretty much.” She pushed back a lock of hair. A breeze was picking up. “We’re all so tangled up in each other’s lives. Two months ago the only person I knew on campus was you. Owen was just some jock who’d had his cheekbone broken. But maybe I should’ve guessed when Mike told me you’d ridden in the ambulance with him. You wouldn’t get that sentimental over just some baseball player. In fact, you don’t even go to the games normally.”

Her dad eyed her. “Mike’s a good man.”

“Uh huh. You know who would’ve been great for you?”

“Genevieve Wister?”

“Genevieve Wister. Intelligent, gorgeous, legs up to here, desperate to bang you and look after you at the same time. God, Dad. Why did you have to fall in love with her _son_ instead?”

He smiled and stood up as Owen stepped out of the water, doing his best to look like he wasn’t shivering. Maybe he’d only taken the dip to give them a few moments alone. “You should make up with Mike,” her dad said. “I’m getting O a towel.”

Owen stepped back up on the grass, very wet and very naked. He really did look a lot like his mother, except for the obvious man parts: tall and willowy and graceful, at ease regardless of the situation. “Hey,” Pella said. “How’s the water?”

“I think I’ll wait till July to try it again. Nice, though.” He smoothed droplets off his arms and nodded toward the patio door. “I think Guert’s hurting. Badly. I suppose anyone would in this situation, but I don’t know him well enough yet to know… How does he seem to you?”

She shrugged. “Like my dad. He’s not the most demonstrative of men. He doesn’t get upset, he gets quiet.” She squinted up at him. “I’m glad he has someone right now, though. Otherwise I know he’d just curl up into a corner with his scotch and cigarettes and Melville and live in his head for a couple of weeks.”

“Sounds like Henry.”

“I keep saying: whole damn campus of fucked up men. Seriously, though, don’t let him smoke anymore. He was supposed to quit eight years ago, doctor’s orders. Cut back on the scotch too. I don’t think he even takes his pills.”

Owen crouched down beside her, an eye on the house. He seemed even younger without his glasses. Gray eyes, just like her dad. “Pills?”

“When he started at Westish, he called me up whining because he had to get a physical. Have you seen his photos from back then? He used to row every day. He was seriously fit. Buff. Anyway, he told me the doctors said he had shitty blood pressure and cholesterol and bad everything, basically, not to mention half his male relatives died of heart attacks, so he was supposed to start taking some meds. He thought the whole thing was a joke. He _says_ he takes them, but I always find a heck of a lot of unused blister packs whenever I’m here.”

“Why wouldn’t he take them?”

“Because he has the scaredy-cat mentality of a ten-year-old. He doesn’t like pills or doctors or any reminders of his own mortality. He thinks if he ignores the problem it’ll go away. You know, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you _are_ the more mature one.”

The door opened. “Sorry, took me a while to find something bigger than a handkerchief.” Her dad wrapped the pristine white towel around Owen like a cloak, like he’d done many times for a much smaller Pella on beaches across New England. “You should come inside. Drink some coffee. That water must be freezing.”

“It woke me up a little.” Owen retrieved his glasses, wiping the lenses. “And actually I think we should go home. We both need to get some sleep.”

Affenlight checked his watch. “It’s still early. I thought we might have some dinner with Pella and Mike later. Celebrate your championship.”

“Guert, I’m reasonably sure you’ve barely slept in two days.”

“I’m reasonably sure he hasn’t slept since March. Also, since when am I dating Mike again? He just hasn’t been awake enough for us to argue yet... And you try kicking a 250-pound guy out of your bed.”

Owen was pulling his underwear back on. “We can have dinner tomorrow. You need to sleep. I’ll take care of the dog, field any calls, figure out which pills you’re supposed to be taking and when. I’m sure your fridge could do with a few more leafy green vegetables as well.”

Affenlight looked at Pella, perplexed. “You told him about the pills? Pella, I feel fine.”

“You think your brother was like, ‘wow, I really feel like I’m going to drop dead of a heart attack in a couple of weeks’? You’re the worst biology student ever. Thank fuck you switched to the humanities, at least you can’t kill anyone with _Moby-Dick_. Unless maybe you drop it on them from the top of the chapel.”

Owen fastened his pants, laid a hand on her dad’s arm. “Guert, you’ve been looking after this entire college for eight years. You got Mike a job, you probably saved Henry’s life, and I know if Pella or I had any sort of health problem you’d do anything to make sure we were okay. So let us take care of you for a few days. I promise we’ll still think of you as a distinguished, capable, ultra-masculine man afterward.”

Growing up without a mother, grandparents, or any family she had more of a relationship with than via Christmas cards, Pella had come to fear the idea of her dad dying far more than any of her classmates worried about their parents. But it had always been an abstract concept, the boogeyman in the closet – he was always so vibrant, so life-affirming, at least publicly. And, even with silver hair, he’d always looked a good ten years younger than his actual age, had always been in far, far better shape than his contemporaries. The idea of actually taking care of _him_ had seemed so far removed from reality... But really she should have confronted him about his smoking and sleeping problems and apparent espresso-based diet long ago. If only she’d actually been here for the last couple of years rather than wasting away her life and soul in San Francisco. They both would’ve been happier, and he might never have looked twice at Owen Dunne. 

On the other hand, they could easily have spent two years arguing relentlessly, with him constantly looking at her with that same disappointed expression. And then she wouldn’t have Owen here with her with his calm tone and most diplomatic Owen-words, which really no one could ignore, least of all her dad.

Now Affenlight was sighing, pushing fingers back through his hair. “Okay,” he said. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

“You’ll stay with him?” Pella asked.

Owen nodded. “I have another final in a few days, but I can study in Guert’s quarters.”

“You’re both being a little dramatic,” her dad protested. “It’s not as though I’m a suicide risk.”

“Good,” Owen said. “So we can just enjoy spending time together. And we’ll need to pack, too. Even just boxing up your books could take weeks.”

Maybe it was good that he was so tired, so wiped out by everything that had happened in the past two months. Not good for his health in the short-term, but at least Owen would get him to bed without much argument, hopefully shred his cigarettes in the garbage disposal, and book him in for a physical at the hospital that was about seven years overdue. So all she had to deal with was Mike, who might have woken up by now and started raiding her roommates’ cupboards, searching for food that wasn’t there. Did _everyone_ at this college have absolutely abominable diets? Despite the quality of the food served at the dining hall, they all seemed to live on discount cornflakes and sugar-free Red Bull. At least now Henry was getting the help he needed, and Owen would look after her dad. And Mike... She frowned. “You got Mike a job?”

“Assistant athletic director,” her dad said. “Although he doesn’t seem inclined to take it. The Harpooners, baseball and football, have never troubled the league tables before, and without his influence I doubt they ever would again. At worst, Westish could use him for a year while he applies to more law schools.”

Maybe he’d made the offer because Mike was Owen’s friend, or because he’d just been to so many games this season. And she shouldn’t even _care_ what Mike Schwartz did with his life. But she hugged her dad anyway, a real hug, the kind of hug that a kid who’d never ever been mad at her father might give him.

Her dad gave her a ride back to her place in town, Owen petting Contango in the back seat. When she got out, she pulled a pen from her pocket and borrowed a notepad from Owen’s bag, using the car roof as a desk. She reached back into the car and stuffed the note into her dad’s shirt pocket. “My cell number. Dinner tomorrow night. I’ll make reservations at Maison Robert for four, okay? If Mike doesn’t want to come I can always bring that Adam Starblind or one of the other two Harpooners neither of us has slept with yet.”

She hugged Owen too, for good measure. He smelled vaguely of garlic and glue, which was either a really odd cologne or some kind of indication of what he got up to in his spare time. Even if he was practically destined to break her dad’s heart within five years, her dad needed Owen now. Hell, _both_ of the Affenlights needed him now. And if she refused to accept this freakily serene kid as some sort of stepfather, and if it would be extremely weird to think of him as a little brother, maybe they could at least be friends. 

The door of the house was unlocked. Her roommates probably weren’t home, but Mike Schwartz was sitting at the kitchen table, chomping unhappily on crackers, a steaming mug of coffee between massive forearms. 

“Hey,” she said.

Mike looked up and smiled with sleepy eyes. “Hey,” he said.


End file.
